Francis Thompson On The Vision Of Thomas Chatterton

where will I go, I implored Him,
to the strange warehouses of the world?
and hide my griefs in a thicket of sand

or sink with the river beyond commands
finding in its depths no christening
but the means to evade in death

the details of my unease.
and then a golden light increased
oh inexplicable constellation;

not regret, but some other thing
and Chatterton spoke to dread
on the miserable turf

and I saw him stay my hand
and heard him reprimand like birdsong
filtered through

the chill of tubercular mists
on the waterfront…
self slaughter.

stay, came the voice
as if allied to gold
still young and laced with tears

or the lost years will infuse
your reveries in the underworlds
and poetry will go on

without you
covering the names of angels in your head
as if Spring were suddenly reft

of all her flowers.
and language itself were dead…

mary angela douglas 5 march 2018